


a little bit of history makes a home

by tryslora



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 4th of July, Bitty Visits Providence, Gifts, M/M, Post Year Two, Shopping, Summer After Sophomore Year, antiques, jack visits Georgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6519919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack loves antique stores; it’s like seeing history come to life. But he loves seeing Bitty smile even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little bit of history makes a home

**Author's Note:**

> So I was out going to a few antique shops with my mom and I bumped into [this crock of rolling pins](https://41.media.tumblr.com/5c97337aa1bcf9a19746c76a0e57edc3/tumblr_o5ed81jyKx1qmid8xo1_1280.jpg) and I thought Bitty and later I thought history and well, here we are. Ngozi owns the wonderful world and characters of Check, Please and I am thankful that she allows us to play with them.

Suzanne mentions the new antique store while chatting with Bitty and Jack in the kitchen. Bitty’s up to his elbows in flour dust, and Jack has a sprinkling of it across his nose from where Bitty flicked it at him. Jack thinks he might also have a hand print on his ass, but he’s not going to look to check while Suzanne is standing there, smiling at them like she adores her boys.

“I was thinking of stopping by this afternoon, just to see,” she muses.

Bitty makes a noise like it’s no matter, but Jack sees the way Suzanne’s gaze skates over them both, the sign of a mother hungry for time with her son. “I go antiquing with Maman,” he says slowly. “She’s looking forward to finding new places in Providence, but we haven’t had time to go yet. I’d love to go with you, if you want company,” he offers.

Bitty looks up, mouth slightly open, and Jack has to smile at the expression. “History,” he says, and Bitty’s mouth snaps closed as he nods.

“Oh yes, goodness, I should have thought.” Bitty wipes his hands on his apron, then reaches up and pats Jack’s cheeks. He can feel the fluff of flour dust around him, knows he’s left with streaks across his skin. “Once the pies are out and cooling, we should go. Where is it, Mama? Should we take the truck?”

Suzanne’s eyes are lit with pleasure, and she glances at Jack, a small smile for him before she beams at her son. “Oh, I think if we bring home another piece of furniture, your father might….” Her voice trails off, expression going soft. “Do you think we’ve got time to refurbish a piece, before you go back?”

“I think we could do that, Mama, if you want.” Bitty reaches for a rolling pin, deftly flours it before he puts the dough on the marble to roll out. Jack tries not to stare at the way Bitty’s back moves, the muscles in his arm as he pushes the pin across the dough. “We’ll take the truck then, see if there’s anything that calls out.”

“I’ll just let you boys be while you finish up here.” Suzanne gives Bitty a quick one-armed hug, laughs when he leaves flour on her face after a kiss to her cheek.

Bitty’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright and happy. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly, and Jack just crowds in close to him, circles his arms around him and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“History,” he says again. “It’s like a field trip.” It feels good when Bitty laughs, turns in his arms and leans up to kiss him thoroughly. It amazes Jack that they can do this, that he can feel so free and his heart so light with Bitty here with him.

#

If he were pressed, Jack might blame antiques for his love of history. He remembers being in a shop with Maman, the way she would tell him stories about each piece, talk about when it was used, who might have used it. He remembers making up his own stories after a time, telling her about the boy who stirred the soup for dinner with that spoon, using that pot in a fireplace.

It might just be Montreal, and the old bones of a city, places that he could touch and feel the history in the stones. But he likes to think that it was the antiques, the way these old things held echoes of the past within their blunted, softened edges.

This new shop Suzanne found isn’t one of the big antique malls with a hundred vendors each hawking their own little piece of history. It’s a tiny place, almost claustrophobic and piled high with an eclectic mix drawn from throughout the ages. There’s an [old porcelain top table](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/600x315/0b/d8/6f/0bd86f822548e742f870510cc0a920bc.jpg) piled high with toys, from beaten-up civil war era tin soldiers to a View-Master with a pile of disks from the 70s. He touches the cool top of the table, carefully moves items to see if there’s a price tag and smiles when he finds it. It’s hard to tell what’s for sale and what is simply there for display.

He takes a picture of the table, happy that this particular piece of furniture looks like it’s already been restored. All he needs to know is whether the owner of the shop would be willing to ship it to Providence.

“My MooMaw has a table like that one.” Bitty’s standing right by Jack’s side, pressed close as if to avoid stepping on one of the piles of magazines that seem to line a pathway through the shop. “It’s good for biscuits, doesn’t let the butter melt while you’re working. Mama put a marble block right in the counter top for our kitchen.” He nudges a hair closer, and Jack feels the way Bitty’s fingers brush against his. It’s an accidental touch to an outside observer, but it’s everything to Jack in that moment and he looks down at Bitty.

“I’m going to get it, if she’ll ship it for me.” Jack gestures back at the woman behind the counter. “Did you find anything?” He wants to take Bitty’s hand, tug him through the store and see what makes his eyes light up. He glances down at Bitty’s fingers, and he sees the small smirk that Bitty gives him before he walks off. Jack’s happy to follow along.

They wind a circuitous pathway through the shop, ending up in a back corner with only one way in, almost hidden from the rest of the store. Jack feels Bitty’s hand touching his hip as he speaks, and he leans into the light touch, trusting that Bitty knows how to stay hidden here among southern eyes. “Just look at this,” Bitty says, his other hand reaching out to lightly touch a stack of old tin pie pans. There’s a pie safe, the wood dark and paint peeling, and on each shelf is something for baking. Old whisks, egg beaters, cookie cutters. Bitty lifts a set of bottle openers that are tied together with a bit of string, each opened engraved with the logo for a different beer. “Think I ought to get these for the Haus?”

“I think the Haus wouldn’t know what to do with a real antique,” Jack murmurs. He watches the way Bitty’s fingers flutter over the pie tins, the way he turns to the old farmhouse table, and the crock of rolling pins.

Bitty lifts one of the rolling pins, runs his hand along the smooth wood and then the curve of the handle. Each one is different, Jack notes, as Bitty puts the rolling pain carefully back into the ceramic crock. “You’re right.” Bitty’s voice is soft. “I do love our boys but I don’t think the Haus is the right place for antiques.” He lingers, though, and Jack lingers with him, watching to see what catches Bitty’s gaze the most.

“Here I am salivating over this one corner, and you haven’t even seen the rest of the store, have you?” Bitty shakes himself, and he tugs a little at Jack’s arm. “Come with me, and let’s look at the rest.”

It takes time to work through the store. Suzanne checks on them once, finds them kneeling in a dusty corner, going through a box of old vinyl records, while Jack picks out a half dozen that he knows he wants to take home. He’s carrying them when he spots the writing desk, and he sets them down on the old table, chest tight.

“Oh this poor old thing.” Bitty’s right there with him, of course, fingers soft as he runs them over the rough surface of the desk. Paint is peeling, and deep gouges mar the surface. The drawers on top are still good, if nicked, and the legs seem sturdy. But overall, it’s an eyesore that someone once tried to fit into a 1970s home, while destroying the antique charm of the original wood.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Jack admits. “But it must have been beautiful once.”

“Just because it’s out of sorts doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed.” Bitty crosses his arms, leans back slightly, looking with a critical eye. “Might take a good bit of elbow grease, but it could be saved, I’m thinking.”

“I don’t have the time.” Or the knowledge. The desk makes Jack’s fingers itch—he knows exactly where he’d put it in his new house, something to bring a touch of history into the brand new space that he has waiting for him in Providence. But he doesn’t have the time to learn how to properly strip it without damaging the wood, or what kind of stain would work best to restore it. He reluctantly picks up the small stack of records and follows Bitty back to the front of the store.

“Goodness, I thought you two boys were lost.” Suzanne smiles at them, just taking a wrapped package from the woman at the counter. “I found two of those bowls MooMaw loves so much,” she tells them.

“Jack found old music.” Bitty grins at him, cocks his head when Jack turns to look back in the shop. “What is it?”

“There’s something else I want to go back and look at,” Jack admits, keeping his voice even. He’s relieved when Bitty says they’ll be waiting outside, that he’ll help his Mama bring things out to the truck.

He heads back into the store, picks out one of the pie crimpers and the red pie bird that Bitty had lingered over. He pauses at the crock of rolling pins, smiles to himself before he returns to the counter. “Do you ship?” he asks, as he sets down the things he’s buying. When she nods, he takes the piece of paper offered to write his address, then walks back through the tangled shop to show her the porcelain table. She writes up a meticulous receipt for him, and Jack pays for everything, including well over the estimated shipping. When she offers to refund any extra, he waves it off. He’d rather pay more and be sure, rather than risk her having to pay out of her own pocket.

Bitty and Suzanne are waiting for him at the truck, and once Jack climbs in, Bitty leans into him, a press of thigh to thigh that’s almost too hot in the Georgia summer heat, but is also welcome. When Bitty hooks his finger around Jack’s, Jack squeezes back, content to be here.

He waits until after dinner to give Bitty the pie crimper and pie bird, amused when Bitty scrambles off the couch, planning immediately to go bake. Jack tugs him back, lures him in with kisses, because this once, pie can wait.

#

The porcelain top table and the crock of rolling pins arrive in Providence, and Jack unpacks them into his kitchen. They seem out of place with the gleaming stainless steel appliances, but Jack loves the touch of home that they give to this sterile house. He’s careful not to let the crock appear in any pictures he texts to Bitty, asking _do you want to come here on your way back to Samwell in August?_

It feels right that Bitty says yes, that Jack’s going to have the chance to have Bitty help make this place a home as well.

When he asks for Bitty’s flight information, he finds out that Bitty’s borrowing the truck to drive himself up to Samwell. So a full week before the hockey team is due back at Samwell, Jack’s sitting on the front steps, reading a book on the Civil War and waiting for Bitty to arrive.

He hears the truck’s rumble before he sees it, loud in the quiet neighborhood in which Jack chose to live. He stands up, sets the book aside carefully, and is down the steps before Bitty pulls into the driveway. Bitty cuts the engine and jumps out of the car, is halfway across the lawn before he pulls up sharply and stands there, grinning uncertainly as Jack approaches.

“You can hug me, Bittle,” Jack says. It’s a risk, but one he’s willing to take, and the words are barely out of his mouth before he has an armful of Bitty, a face buried against his shoulder. Jack wraps his arms around Bitty, holding him up off the ground and squeezing tight before he slowly, carefully puts him back down.

Jack glances at the tarp covered bed of the truck. “Is there anything that ought to come in while you’re here?”

“I’m traveling lighter than it looks,” Bitty admits. “But there’s something that maybe ought to come in. Take a look with me, why don’t you, and see what you think?”

Bitty climbs up on the truck step and leans into the bed. He grabs one edge of the tarp and swings it back as Jack joins him, revealing three suitcases and a large rubbermaid tote.

And the writing desk.

Jack is wordless as he stares at it, restored to a beautiful cherry. The nicks and dings give it character, lend the weight of age to the wood. “You….”

“Mama and I restored it for you. If you want it.” Bitty’s strangely tall as he perches on the step, and Jack steps in closer, almost close enough to kiss him if he dared do it in public.

“I want it.” Jack licks his lips, can’t find the words he needs to say. Instead he lightly touches Bitty’s back, motions at the bed of the truck as he hitches himself up over the side. “Help me carry it in?”

It goes in the living room, just inside the door. Jack moves the tray table he had there, takes the hand-thrown bowl from that table and sets it on the writing desk instead, with his keys still inside. He puts the book he was reading on the top, and he stands back to look at it, unwilling to leave it while Bitty explores the house on his own.

“Jack?”

He turns, heads quickly to the back of the house and into the kitchen, drawn by Bitty’s strangled voice. He finds him standing in the doorway, one hand over his mouth, the other pressed to his chest, eyes wide as he sees the ceramic table. The leaves are tucked in, but Jack has made sure that everything works. Everything Bitty needs for baking is there, from the measuring spoons and cups tucked in the drawer, to the pans piled on a shelf nearby. And sitting in the center of the table, more decoration than useful at this moment, is the crock full of rolling pins of all ages and sizes.

The corners of Jack’s mouth twitch. “I thought maybe it would help me learn how to make pie crust,” he says, and he gets an armful of Bitty and a hand lightly slapping his chest.

“Nothing’s going to help your crust, Mr. Zimmermann, unless you plan on practicing long hours, doing it over and over again,” Bitty chirps, but Jack can hear the tightness in his throat, sees the shine of happy tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t mind practicing if you’re planning on helping,” Jack tells him. He touches Bitty’s chin, and now that they’re alone—now that they are truly, finally alone—he lightly presses his lips to Bitty’s.

“You bought me a table and rolling pins,” Bitty whispers against his lips, and Jack chuckles because Bitty brought him a piece of history as well.

“I want you to feel at home here.” Jack steps back, offers a hand. “Why don’t we bring your things in, let you stay a while?”

It’s another hour before they manage to think about ordering in dinner, and an hour after that before Jack carefully sends a text to the Samwell Mens’ Hockey group with a picture of the writing desk, and follows it up with a picture of Bitty covered in flour, beaming as he works on rolling out a crust on the new table.

 _Feels like home_ , Jack says, because now that is the absolute truth.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
